


Coratella

by Petronia



Series: Hannibal stories [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Cannibalism, Castle Lecter, Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, also the 1983 US invasion of Grenada, same continuity as Yamato Nadeshiko if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21741112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/pseuds/Petronia
Summary: In 1992, after the breakup of the Soviet Union, the Lecter family returns to take possession of their ancestral castle and hunting grounds.In 1983, a bizarre murder takes place during the US invasion of Grenada.In 2014, an ex-FBI agent makes a port call while crossing the Atlantic by sail.(Written for the 2019 Ravage fanbook.)
Relationships: Chiyoh & Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter & Mischa Lecter
Series: Hannibal stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/279537
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40
Collections: RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology





	1. Lithuania, September 1992

It had rained for days before their arrival, and the dirt road that led up to the castle had become mostly run-off: a difficult climb even with four-wheel drive. When they stopped to wrangle the wrought-iron gate of the estate -- improbably still decorated with the Lecter coat of arms, albeit rusted through -- Hannibal saw mud had splashed up the sides of their Niva, nearly to window height.

Vincas returned to the driver’s seat and passed him the entire ring of keys. The one for the padlock was obviously new. The others were old-fashioned bronze skeletons, patinaed and jumbled, some as long as Hannibal’s hand. 

“I have a copy of the front gate key,” Vincas said. “For delivery. Or emergency.”

He turned left, and within fifty metres was easing to a stop in a small clearing in front of a wood-framed hunting lodge, nestled between tall white birches and black pines. The space was edged with tall, grassy cottage yarrow, still blooming red despite the incipient end of summer.

Mischa was out of the car at once, like a small animal too long cooped up. She crouched in front of the flowers, careless of the spotless white cotton of her frock, and buried her face in the clusters to breathe them in. Then she sat back, nose wrinkling in disappointment.

Hannibal smiled. He stepped out into the grass and looked up at the curved silhouette of the lodge’s roofline, almost hidden by treetops. This place, and not the recently-reacquired castle, had once been the only house he knew. That was equally true of Mischa, though he doubted she remembered.

Behind him Chiyoh emerged into the afternoon sunlight, travel valise held firmly in gloved hand. She said nothing, but Hannibal felt her dark gaze pass over and beyond him: considering, absorbing.

“There is water from the pump,” Vincas said. “It comes from the old well. Firewood in the shed, oil for generator also. No telephone line yet. I will return Wednesday morning.”

“Delivery, or emergency,” Hannibal said. Vincas began unloading the contents of the Niva.

“I will leave you the gun,” he said.

***

They spent the rest of the day cleaning and airing out the lodge for habitation. There was little furniture and much debris, but not as much damage from the damp as Hannibal had feared. The painted plaster ceiling -- skilled reproductions of noble hunting parties after Utagawa Yoshitsuya -- had mostly survived, as well as the ancient taxidermied trophies mounted high on the walls, albeit in a moth-bitten state.

“The family has always evinced a nipponophile side, I suppose,” Hannibal said. “The castle had Neoclassical ceilings once, but they were painted over by the Soviets when the building was expropriated for public use.”

“There isn’t a bathtub,” Chiyoh said. She sounded unimpressed.

“Shall we hang the prints by the fireplace?” Hannibal said.

They had been a parting gift from Murasaki: matching birds of prey, perched and in flight, by the early 20th-century woodblock artist Ohara Koson. Hannibal placed them to either side of the mantelpiece, while Chiyoh set up the chairs they’d found: odd, high-backed affairs, carved to resemble antlers or tangled bramble.

“We should light candles,” he said. “Leave the generator for tomorrow.”

***

Mischa came to him in the small hours, slipping white-clad and slender into his bedroll.

“Bad dreams?” Hannibal murmured, making space for her automatically. She shook her head; strands of her cornfloss hair brushed his face with the movement, glimmering silver in the moonlight.

“There was a man scratching at my window,” she said. 

She didn’t sound frightened -- she rarely did -- but the matter-of-fact statement gave him pause. He reached for and found the knife he had secreted, in the space between mattress and frame.

“Perhaps it was tree branches. The birches have grown too close; we’ll cut them back.”

“No,” she said, decidedly, and yawned. “I saw him. He had a pale face, like the moon, and I knew he wanted me to go out to him, but I didn’t. I came here instead. Who do you think he is?”

“I don’t know,” Hannibal said. “It’s good that you stayed safe.”

***

In the morning there were boot prints, in the drying but still prehensile mud. They crossed the clearing from the direction of the road, tracked alongside the lodge’s outside wall, trampled the yarrow, then left the way they came. The soles were worn; the size spoke to an adult man.

Hannibal could not tell if they had paused at any of the windows.

He touched the pocket knife again, folded neatly inside his pocket. It was a balisong -- a butterfly knife -- with a handle wrought in silver filigree. As quick as a switchblade, but not illegal to carry. He had purchased it while travelling, the previous year, and practiced until he could open it one-handed, vertically or horizontally or latch-dropped into a reverse grip.

He considered it a line of defense. Like a scalpel, it could blind an eye or sever an artery at close range. It was not the tool one used for hunting animals in the woods, or dressing the meat thereafter. For such endeavours, he would have to make provision in the village.

There was also Chiyoh to consider. 

He had been curious, when she had chosen to follow him instead of Murasaki, how his young retainer-shadow had envisaged her participation.

She was already up. He could hear the water pump squeaking, around the side of the lodge where the woodshed was located. The noise stopped, and after a few moments she emerged.

“I found the bathtub,” she said.

***

Mischa wandered through the castle, humming to herself: an old, wordless song she did not remember learning. One hand trailed a ragged bouquet of red yarrow, corymbs pointed downward and carelessly brushing the floor. The other carried a ring of old-fashioned bronze keys.

Not all the chambers were lovely, light and high. Fire had swept the building, more than once, leaving most rooms uninhabitable. Some were unsafe, walls hollowed by dry rot and floorboards caved in. The plaster, now charred and cracked, evinced multiple layers of sallow, industrial green paint, dating to when -- in a quixotic statement of intent by post-war planners -- the property had been repurposed as an orphanage, for those left behind by the mass deportations of the period. 

The institution had not lasted. It had been too far from everything, too difficult to supply or upkeep. All that remained was a kind of schema of debris, an archaeological stratum of broken crockery and twisted, child-sized metal bedframes. Mischa bent to examine: a long, rusty needle. A door-less cabinet, full of glass and slag that might once have constituted medical waste. A yellowed harpsichord key. 

She found stairs, wide and curving, and started upward.

She tried half her ring on the first locked room she encountered, before identifying the right key. The solid chestnut doors swung open to reveal bookshelves, entirely bare, from floor to two-story-high ceiling; and a few odd pieces of furniture -- a musty-looking armchair, a desk on spindly legs -- that occupied an otherwise featureless expanse of ballroom parquet, the accidental corners thus defined clogged, improbably, by drifts of dead leaves. 

An old library. Perhaps converted for official use, before the castle had been abandoned entirely.

One or two of the windowpanes had been knocked out. They were heavy, rippled glass in lead casements, but glass all the same. The leaves must have blown in through the autumn and winter, perhaps over many years.

As if to underline the thought, a breeze rose, and the leaves stirred, with a bone-dry sound of shifting paper.

Or, after all, were there books?

None at first glance. But upon further investigation, she found them, hidden in the drawers of the spindly desk. A yellowed and dog-eared Latin primary reader; Goethe’s _Faust_ with a green cardboard cover. The ungainly bulk of Alexandre Dumas’s _Grand dictionnaire de cuisine_ , half torn out of its handsome violet maroquin binding. And _La Divina Commedia di Dante_. 

Mischa sat, cross-legged on the parquet, and placed the latter on her lap for examination. The slim tome fell open to a passage that had been marked:

_ At this I turned and saw in front of me, _ __  
_ Beneath my feet, a lake that, frozen fast, _ _  
_ _Had lost the look of water and seemed glass._

A pair of black and white photographs had been left between the pages. One depicted a group of sombrely dressed men, standing before the front gate of the castle. Some seemed to be officials, or doctors; others might have been groundskeepers or guardsmen. Two or three were circled in pen, but none of the faces were familiar.

The other photograph was a family portrait. Man, woman, two small blond children: a sleek-headed, grave-eyed boy, a wisp of a girl in a white frock. 

Mischa held the book up by its covers and shook it, hoping for more mysterious images. There were none, but something else fell out: a long, midnight-black pinion feather, like that of a raven or a swan, iridescent as an oil slick when held to the light.

Mischa, pleased by the discovery, added it to her bouquet.

***

After breakfast, they walked out into the brush, carrying Vincas’s hunting rifle. Along the way, Hannibal recounted Brillat-Savarin’s advice regarding the pheasant: how it needed to be hung in its plumage for three days or more, ripening to the point of rot. Fermentation unlocked the perfume of its oils, as it did that of cocoa.

“Brillat-Savarin recommended stuffing the pheasant with de-boned woodcock, beef marrow, and chopped Périgord truffles, roasting it on bread to catch the juices,” he said, “or shaping it into a galantine garnished with ortolans and cockscomb. But in the era of grand shooting parties, too much game was taken to treat each bird so exquisitely. It could as profitably be wrapped in parchment and roasted on a spit.”

He smiled.

“There’s not much to the estate but shooting and trapping, if one wishes to live off the land.”

“You know how to shoot,” Chiyoh said. “But you don’t like it.”

“No. It lacks intimacy.”

“Should killing be intimate?”

They both saw it at once, then. Dark shadow plummeting from bright sun, striking -- a commotion -- an explosion, fawn-black-white: three or four pheasants flushing to the air, then disappearing as quickly back into the brush. 

They were not followed. The hawk remained grounded, hunched over what it came for, though the precise prey was difficult to distinguish amidst the vegetation.

Hannibal and Chiyoh watched in silence. At length Hannibal raised the gun, sighting along the barrel, only to lower it and adjust the scope for accuracy.

“Death, in nature,” he said, “is rarely anything but.”

“It hunts only for food,” Chiyoh said. “Living off the land, and part of it.”

“So it does. And yet it takes pleasure in the exercise of its instinct.” Hannibal excavated bullets from his pocket and began to load both barrels. “To a pheasant, the hawk is an inexplicable, calamitous event, a cruel bolt from the sky, like the collapse of a church on a prayerful congregation. To a snail or a grasshopper, conversely, the pheasant is the calamity… We do not know in what cellular or chemical language a blade of grass might cry out, upon its consumption by the snail. 

“Yet the hawk derives joy and sustenance from the pheasant; the pheasant from the snail; the snail from the leaf. That is God’s design. Treachery, murder, vengeance… are humanity’s gifts to itself.”

He handed the rifle to Chiyoh. Behind him, the hawk winged away and rose, leisurely, into cloudless blue.

“You should be the one to practice,” he said.

***

He found Mischa in the bath, some hours later. 

Night had fallen. Chiyoh had already retired after the day’s travails; they’d managed a brace of pheasants for the hanging, but not bothered with the generator. The tub’s polished copper gleamed, richly reflective, in candlelight. The bathwater itself appeared to glow, milky-pearlescent with soap, from which Mischa -- immersed to her throat -- gazed up at him gravely.

“Wash my hair for me?” she said.

Hannibal knelt at the head of the tub, rolling up his sleeves. The silken-wet foam of her hair through his fingers was sense-memory, deep-wrought, neither impeded nor aided by method of loci.

“Do you remember anything else?” he said. “About the man you saw at your window.”

She shook her head, frowning.

“He’s not in the photograph, so he can’t be important.”

“The photograph?”

“Hannibal,” she said, “where was your snail garden?”

His hands paused, then moved again. “The dry bed of the old fountain,” he said, “in the angel’s secret place. I’d forgotten. It must be entirely overgrown now.”

“You said we would fatten them as the Romans did, and eat them with herbed butter. But we didn’t, did we? They all turned into fireflies.”

“Firefly larvae are parasitic,” Hannibal said. “They live within the host, consuming and transforming them at once. In some respects, it is analogous to the process a caterpillar undergoes within its chrysalis. Base matter becomes not only winged, but cold fire.”

“You didn’t want to upset me.”

“No. You thought they were beautiful. You would slip away and chase them for entire evenings, through the tall grass... The truth is, I couldn’t stop it from happening.”

“And so it keeps happening, still,” Mischa said.

She reached out of the water, to touch his face, and he saw the violet bruises: standing livid all along her arm.

***

Crack. Crack.

Chiyoh lowered the rifle, considering. Then raised it again, tracking her sight horizontally along the treeline.

There was no one. There couldn’t have been, from this direction, unless they had somehow come from the cottage and outflanked her. But the sensation of being watched lay foreboding on her nape, an invisible hand that had weighed there increasingly over the course of the morning, like the humid air.

Hannibal had been absent, when she’d awoken. His note said he had gone up to the castle, in order to investigate the cellars.

“Hannibal,” she said, aloud; but not calling out. She reloaded and moved toward the trees, gun at the ready.

They opened out, into a clearing -- no. A graveyard, the leaning stones and miniature mausoleums grown over with moss and lichen and ivy, slowly being absorbed into the teeming undergrowth. There must have been a chapel once, as well, attached to the castle, but it had fallen down or been demolished, and was impossible to distinguish even as ruin.

One headstone of simple grey slate caught her eye. It seemed newer than the others, although the plot was not fresh. Perhaps it was a recent replacement, or had been cleaned. 

She moved closer, looking for the engraved name.

A twig snapped behind her.

Chiyoh whirled, rifle rising and at the ready. The barrel mouth found Vincas, who’d ducked into a half-crouch, hands flying up around his ears. They both froze.

Chiyoh lowered the gun, to point at the ground.

_ “Dievo Motina,” _ Vincas said under his breath. He straightened slowly, and Chiyoh saw he had his own hunting rifle, strapped to his back. “Where is Lecter?” 

“At the castle,” Chiyoh said. “You were supposed to return on Wednesday.”

“Not good,” said Vincas, in English. “There is emergency.” He glanced uphill, toward the castle, mostly hidden by trees at this vantage. “Not good,” he said, again, seemingly to himself.

“We’ll find Hannibal,” Chiyoh said. “Tell me what happened.”

Vincas looked back at her. “A man is dead in the village,” he said. “Killed. He was tied, and…” He made a gesture toward his own throat, then thorax, but the specifics seemed to defy description. “Police is coming, but it will take time.”

“We’ve been up here since you left us,” Chiyoh said. “We’ve seen and heard nothing.” But Vincas only shook his head.

“No,” he said, “we know who killed. Dortlich is the one dead, you see, and Grutas is missing. They must have argued. No one else could take Dortlich like that. And Grutas knows the forest. If he has come up to the castle to hide, during the night, he--”

He stopped.

Chiyoh followed his gaze and saw a diffuse tracing of wood smoke, rising from the unseen castle grounds, over the treetops.

***

He had found her in the verdant tall grass, at the foot of the angel; and knelt beside her for a long time. She had been warm, still, her open eyes reflecting the sky in miniature. The bruises on her throat and arms had stood out like blue violets.

In Dante’s hierarchy of betrayals, that of Caina -- family against family -- was the least grave, though the anecdotal history involved was no less internecine and bloody. Hannibal had pondered more than once the peculiar phrasing of Camiscion de’ Pazzi, himself a distant maternal cousin, who had murdered his kinsman Carlino over lands they’d held in common:  _ e aspetto Carlin che mi scagioni. _

Did Carlino dei Pazzi, himself destined for eternal ice, nevertheless have the right to forgive and absolve his own death? Was that the intimacy of blood, or some other grace? 

And what, then, would become of Camiscion’s punishment?

Hannibal had been clumsy with a blade, at the time, and his culinary practice largely experimental -- based on the perusal of what texts had been available, without access to the correct tools or ingredients. But he had known to take what he could, in honour: coral-red heart, rosy-pink lungs, violet-brown liver still glossy and rich with lifeblood. 

Sacrifices had to be burnt, for the scent to be pleasing to the gods, and the cleansing granted.

In his mind she had opened her eyes, as he had finished making the last cut. 

“Now you’ll remember,” she had said, “the taste.”

***

There was no shouting, nor any noise of struggle. 

There might have been the sound of something heavy, gently aided in its slump to the ground.

Chiyoh did not pause. She steadied the rifle and inched forward, around the castle’s buttressing wall.

Vincas, who had taken the lead, was sprawled on the ground in foreshortening, his rifle trapped under his torso. Hannibal stood over him, face blankly pensive; one hand gripped a wicked-looking hunting knife, with a bone handle. 

Behind him, the dilapidated, green-stained bathtub had been filled halfway up with hot embers, releasing billows of smoke into the open air. It had unsettled Chiyoh, the day before, to discover the abandoned tub lashed to a rusty contraption of recycled metal poles, as if for an impromptu roasting pit. She saw now that that was its entire purpose.

A few feet away lay another man, this one gagged and trussed, legs together and elbows unnaturally bent behind his back. Though silenced, he was conscious, and turned his head to stare at Chiyoh, the whites of his eyes bulging in animal terror.

He was bare from the waist up, and feet as well. His boots had been placed aside, improbably neatly, lined up and lace ends tucked into tongues. 

Chiyoh’s aim came to rest at the gravitational centre of Hannibal’s torso.

“Is he dead?” she said. Meaning Vincas.

Hannibal glanced up, as if just now marking her presence.

“ _Coratella,_ ” he said. “Lamb’s offal, the _quinto quarto;_ _pluck,_ in English, or _fressure_ in French. In many cuisines it constitutes part of the Paschal feast. Different organs are taken: in Greece the spleen, in Italy the lungs. A classic Roman preparation is _con carciofi_ \-- fried or grilled, with spring artichokes--” He turned the hunting knife over in his hand, examining the edge-- “But the season for artichokes is long past.”

“Is it sustenance?” said Chiyoh. “God’s design? He is not an animal.”

“It is _contrapasso,”_ Hannibal said.

“Hannibal,” she said, “don’t move.”

“After the orphanage burned,” he said, “the authorities took our parents. It was thought that they might, after all, have held a grudge against collectivism. Mischa and I escaped notice, for a little while, living off the land: the little lord and lady of the manor. We knew they would have separated us.

“Once the estate was left to run wild, it was of value only for its game -- to poachers, since that was what these men had become, in lieu of groundskeepers. Dortlich, when I spoke to him, admitted to taking money for arson on the administrator’s behalf, but what he desired was an unimpeded hunt.

“This one -- Grutas -- was yet another breed of pig, with a different cast of appetite. And he remembers, I think. He followed us here, during the night, just as he must have followed Mischa and me before he took her; he suspected who I was, and why we had come.”

He held the knife out, smiling faintly.

“This was Dortlich’s. It cut his throat and more. I suppose they disagreed over what needed to be done, and Grutas felt it safer to silence his partner. Then he came up here to silence me. Or so runs the theory of the case.”

“The police are on their way,” Chiyoh said.

But she saw the boots; the remnant mud; the latent threat of rain. An experienced fugitive could leave tracks leading into the wilderness, and disappear thereafter without a trace.

“Chiyoh,” said Hannibal, “steadfast heart. You chose to follow me. You have the upper hand. What will you do?”

He meant -- she understood it -- if she would kill the perpetrator, now that she had heard the truth. 

It gave her pause. Both barrels to the chest or head: messy, but quick, impersonal, and deserving. No Dantean retribution; no repercussions. Hannibal had been curious from the start, and so had left her the gun.

_ It lacks intimacy. _

She bent, and checked Vincas’s pulse. It was steady, and he breathed; she did not see blood seep between him and the ground.

Hannibal, intently watching her, had not moved. Chiyoh rose again, and gestured at the bound man with the rifle’s barrel.

“Take him to the cellars,” she said.

***

Hannibal glanced back, once, as they entered the bowels of the castle. Mischa stood by the pyre that had claimed her, smiling at him. Her flesh was unblemished, white dress likewise, and the space between her ribs was filled to overflowing with clusters of red yarrow.

Their eyes met in silence. It was the last time he saw her.


	2. Epilogue: Grenada, March 2014

Fedon-Smith let the steel roll-up door fall behind them, with a crash. Will Graham blinked at the abrupt cessation of island sun. The warehouse interior was dimly lit, but for a few seconds they could as well have been cast into total darkness.

“This way,” said Fedon-Smith, once he saw Will had oriented himself. Will followed him through a set of swinging doors, then another, into a temperature-controlled area humming with rows of freezers.

Cold storage, or part of it, for St. George’s medical school.

“The configuration is nothing like it was then,” said Fedon-Smith. “But you saw the photographs in the file.”

Will nodded. He paced the space, end to end. The aquarium tank had been set up in the centre of the oblong room, about five metres from either wall. 

The autopsy at the time had found that Valdas Milko, civilian advisor and attaché from the then Soviet Union, had drowned in 4% formaldehyde solution -- nearly the Grand Anse campus’s entire virgin supply of tissue fixative in October 1983 -- after which the tank had been allowed to freeze solid, entombing his corpse. Lit up in blue neon as installed, it would have made for a whimsical sight. As it was, the electricity had gone out for some time before the man had been discovered, still only half-thawed.

“The coroner’s official finding was accidental death,” said Fedon-Smith. “It could not have been an accident, and we knew as much. But given the unusual circumstances, the pressing concern was to eliminate the possibility that the man had died in action, during the US Rangers’ rescue mission at Grand Anse. All other diplomatic personnel from the Socialist bloc had been captured without incident during the invasion, since none had participated in the fighting. 

“By the time the body was found, of course, the medical students had been peacefully evacuated.”

“Lecter would have been a very young man then,” said Will.

“He would have been, yes. I never met him.” Fedon-Smith shrugged, and his voice took on a sprig of humour. “He never gave me any reason to.”

Faced with a dearth of suspects, Fedon-Smith had looked into Milko himself, to the limited extent possible. The file noted only that Milko was Lithuanian by birth, and had occupied roles in hospital administration before being dispatched on official exchange to Cuba, and thence Grenada. If he had remained in the USSR, Will thought, it might have delayed his fate another decade.

Or perhaps not. In the topography of Cocytus, Ptolomea’s traitors were wholly encased in ice, unable even to weep. Those were who had betrayed their guests; and the loathsomeness of that sin was such that their souls fell immediately into Hell upon its commission. 

_ Something _ thereafter walked in the guise of these men’s skins.  _ Something _ spoke; ate food; followed whim and ambition. But it was not human. What had been human was long dead.

It was an insight with which Will was recurringly and intimately familiar.

“There is a passage in Dante,” he said, “that provides context: the narrative of Count Ugolino in Canto 33, of the  _ Inferno." _

“The cannibal,” said Fedon-Smith.

“Yes. And no. You might call that a modern interpretation. The poem runs that Dante encounters Ugolino in Antenora, endlessly gnawing the nape of Archbishop Ruggieri’s skull. He recounts that Ruggieri -- symbolized in a dream by slavering mastiffs -- had betrayed and imprisoned him, with his children and grandchildren, in the tower of Pisa, eventually sealing them up to die. Ugolino, in despair, bites at his hands; his children offer him their own flesh to stave off hunger. Then he watches them succumb. He loses his sight; calls out to his dead in the dark; in the end, he says,  _ fasting did more than grief. _

“The turn of phrase is straightforward. It amounts to saying that he died of hunger, though sorrow for his family could not kill him. But for a moment, hearing the line, one suspects a different meaning.

“It is a matter of artistic intent. The successive reminders of biting and rending are not accidental. They build to an auditory phantom, a suppressed fundamental frequency. Dante won’t come out and say it, but he makes it impossible not to guess it. That is his design.”

“You’re saying we know what happened,” said Fedon-Smith, “but we’ll never prove it. That’s fair, Mr. Graham, when you’ve been retired fifteen years like me. But I wonder how far you’ll sail for understanding -- beyond the Leeward Islands, is my guess.”

Will did not quite smile.

“Palermo, I think,” he said. “To begin with.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Yarrow, or woundwort, has as scientific name _Achillea millefolium._ In myth it was created by Achilles, and used by his soldiers to staunch bleeding. In both symbolic language and fact it promotes the healing of wounds.
> 
> 2) Will’s exegesis of Ugolino’s story is borrowed with all due honour from Jorge Luis Borges’s _Nine Dantesque Essays 1945-1951._
> 
> 3) I have always wondered about Hannibal's fleeting mention of having travelled in Grenada as a young man.


End file.
